Perfection
by JamesLuver
Summary: Never before has Jessie witnessed such perfection.


**A/N:** Oh, the irony of having something titled _Perfection_ when it is anything but.

For **pokemypoke**, who is one of the best people in the world and an incredible friend. I would truly be lost without her. This is not what I wanted to give her (she deserves something a million times better), but it's the best I could come up with in the end. Happy birthday! I hope you have a wonderful day.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. C'est la vie.

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_Perfection_

Jessie has never known such perfection until now. Oh, she has known _some_ perfection before in her life. Her mother had been perfect – or at least her recollections of her are. Perhaps the more unsavoury memories have been washed away like dirt, cleansing them and making them shine brighter than any of the stars above, refusing to mar such a woman's reputation, but Jessie doesn't think so. Her mother had been one of a kind. There had been something flawless and cat-like about the way she'd moved, the way she'd carried herself. Little Jessie had been in awe of the way that her mother had seemed to command respect and appreciation no matter where she went. Eyes had always followed her around the room, and Jessie would never forget some of the snatches of conversation that she'd overheard as she'd trailed behind her mother whenever they'd been able to afford to travel into town.

"_What a looker, eh? Killer legs."_

"_She's a fine woman, that's for sure."_

"_She's the meaning of perfection."_

Her mother had laughed when Jessie had excitedly commented on how pretty everyone else found her.

"_One day you'll be breaking hearts for yourself, Jessie,"_ she'd told her.

"_I wish I was more like you, Momma,"_ she'd said as her mother had swept her up in her arms.

Her mother had kissed her cheek. _"You're perfect just the way you are."_

The next winter, she was gone.

Jessie has always carried those words in her heart ever since. Arrogant or not, Jessie knows that her mother was right. She _is_ beautiful, she _is_ perfect. If she chose to, she could hook up with any man she wanted, lead him on with a flick of her hair, entice him into her arms with a pout of her lips, a flash of her thigh.

With the lifestyle that she has chosen for herself, it is rare for her to receive much male attention. It doesn't bother her that much. It is nice when it is directed her way, but she doesn't have time to waste on fickle relationships. Her pursuit of fame and fortune is much more important. She has all the time in the world to waste on breaking hearts when she has achieved her goals.

At least that was what she'd thought until her life had taken a dramatic turn towards…

…Him.

Now, Jessie rolls onto her side to contemplate the man sleeping next to her. A lazy, satisfied grin pulls at the corners of her mouth.

If she thinks that she herself is perfect, then he comes a very close second with the definition of the word.

His lavender hair is tousled, sticking out every which way in a very agreeable mess. One of his arms is thrown high above his head, the other hangs over the side of the bed. She should be irritated that it lets the cold air come snaking between their bed sheets – a rarity at the best of times – and chills her to the bone with its early morning touch. She should be annoyed by the snores issuing from his mouth – if she wanted to go back to sleep, they'd surely prevent her from doing so. And yet all she can do is prop herself up on her elbow and watch his sleeping face.

His lashes lie delicately against his face, hiding his bright green eyes from the world. His lips – so soft, she has recently discovered – are parted just slightly. They make her want to kiss him, but she shakes off the urge. She is not that sentimental.

Instead, she moves to poke him in the ribs.

"Wake up," she says briskly.

He makes a groaning sound, attempting to twist away from that pain in his side. She prods him all the more vigorously. At last he responds with a moan, eyes flying open.

"I'm awake, I'm awake!" he whines, words slightly slurred as he grows accustomed to being a part of the world again. And then his eyes widen comically. She can almost detect his train of thought – the novel feeling of his naked skin against the bed sheets, the fact that she is lying next to him, wearing nothing herself – and then his face brightens in the most brilliant grin that she has ever seen. His face, pale mere minutes before, has flushed a deep crimson. He averts his eyes from her boyishly, fingers coming to grasp the thin duvet.

"Good morning," she purrs, unable to prevent the smirk from crossing her face at his reaction. While she acknowledges that he can be an utter idiot sometimes, he is the most perfect idiot she knows.

"Good morning," he echoes, obviously unsure of how to act. Years of working and living so closely with him ensures that she knows that he is worrying about whether she sees last night as a mistake. So she moves closer to him (he flinches as though expecting a slap), and presses her lips gently against his. It barely lasts a few seconds (she doesn't want to give him the impression that she's going soft), but it is enough to reassure him; she feels him relax against her, and he even brings up a shaking hand to rest tentatively on her shoulder.

When she pulls away from him, she shimmies to the end of the bed and stands up, letting the covers fall away, leaving her unashamedly naked. She can feel his gaze on her, but when she glances over her shoulder, he is pretending to study the faded pattern on the quilt.

"Get up," she tells him. "We've got a big day ahead of us."

He nods, mirroring her movements. Outwardly, it seems that nothing has changed.

But things have. And they can both feel it. James looks up and shoots Jessie a shy grin. It lights up his face. And though she only rolls her eyes at his antics, inwardly, she can't help but melt.

Because never before has she witnessed such perfection.


End file.
